


oh chances

by toomuchplor



Series: Eamespreg [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Male Lactation, Morning After, Mpreg, Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has a vague impression of his hands leaving smeary fingerprints on the mirrored door -- that, and a lot of laughing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh chances

**Author's Note:**

> Set when George is five months old, Lucas is closing in on two and a half, and Bert is three and a half. (Yes, I do have a list of birthdays. Why do you ask.)

“Sorry, did the mooing wake you?” asks Eames, looking up as Arthur stumbles slowly into the small hotel room bathroom. Arthur knows his own hair is a sight to see; it always is, mornings before he’s showered. It’s sort of unusual, though, to see Eames all rumple-headed and sleep-wrinkled. He’s got a cowlick that rivals Arthur’s own, at the moment, and a pink pillow crease over one cheek.

“A little,” says Arthur, “s’okay.” Eames is perched on the edge of the tub but he gamely moves his legs out of the way when Arthur approaches the toilet. He juggles the breast pump hand-to-hand as it keeps humming and wheezing rhythmically. 

Arthur toes the toilet seat up, pees, eyes only about half-open, brain maybe a quarter awake. He’s hung over from a full night’s sleep, he thinks. Certainly he didn’t have enough wine to justify a hangover of the alcoholic variety. “That thing sounds like it’s saying _nipples, nipples, nipples_ ,” Arthur observes, flushing, setting the lid back down and turning around, sitting to keep Eames company for a minute.

Eames cocks his head and considers, listening. “So it does,” he says. He glances down at himself, squints curiously at the half-full little bottles of milk. He doesn’t use the pump, much. He’s rarely away from George long enough to need it. “Can you google how long after you drink does the,” he starts, and trails off with a vague wave of his hand, giving up on syntax.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “but I mean. It’s got to be okay by now.”

“Probably,” agrees Eames. “Just, maybe check.”

Arthur washes his hands and fetches his phone. No messages; he already checked as much, blearily, upon waking to the sounds of the breast pump through the thin hotel walls. He googles ‘breast milk alcohol how long safe’ and with some coaxing he gets the internet to admit that eight hours is probably a long enough interval for a nursing mother of Eames’ weight and height.

“I could toss it to be certain,” Eames says, when Arthur conveys the information.

“Or you could save it and we could experiment to find out what a drunk baby is like,” Arthur suggests.

Eames’ mouth quirks gently, too sleepy to be his usual cheerful self. For a moment Arthur’s heart thumps and his stomach clenches because Eames is impossibly beautiful, too perfect to be real, even — especially — all puffy and rumpled and soft with his tits pushed into the silicone suction mouths, and his feet splayed wide on bleached white tile. “He’d be not unlike myself with a couple of good glasses of wine in, I’d venture,” he says. “Did I really let you have your wicked way with me in the lift? God.”

“Hey,” says Arthur, unrepentant, “the repair guy said twenty minutes, and you were all slutty and handsy. You never drink, I didn’t know you’d get all — loose — after a few glasses of wine. I’m not made of steel, you know.”

“Felt like it,” says Eames, with a soft leer.

“It was a little dumb, I admit,” says Arthur, reaching out and dragging his fingertips over the wild comb of Eames’ hair. “We should probably get you a pregnancy test.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Eames, “you didn’t even get it in.”

“I did, a bit,” Arthur says, “just the,” and he has to laugh, “the tip got in, I think.”

“Wow,” says Eames, impressed, “well, it’s a good show I’m not a sixteen-year-old or I’d be a cautionary tale. But you know, nursing, it’s hardly likely.”

“The whole point of this weekend was to be away from the children,” Arthur says. “It seems pretty typical of us to make a new one instead.”

“We can call it Otis, if we did,” says Eames. “After the lift.”

“We’re not calling our baby Otis,” says Arthur. “I’ll order up some breakfast, what do you want?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly from my and xen's obsession with having all of the boys conceived accidentally in the weirdest TLC-based-on-a-true-story ways possible. And I think this marks us having described all the conceptions, though I will not rule out coming back to this one because fumbling drunken teenage 'just the tip' sex in an elevator seems worth revisiting at some point.
> 
> And yes, breast pumps do sort of moo. It's insanely unflattering. The double-pump Medulla one says 'nipples, nipples' too. (I have no children. Don't ask how I know.)


End file.
